“It is true, madam,” said Israel; “it is true that I have a treasure there. My daughter—my little blind Naomi.”
“Is that all?” cried Katrina and Ben Aboo together.
“It is all,” said Israel, “but it is enough. Let me fetch her.”
“Don't allow it!” cried Katrina.
Israel's face betrayed feeling. He was struggling to suppress it. “Make me homeless if you will,” he said, “turn me like a beggar out of your town, but let me fetch my daughter.”
“She'll not thank you,” cried Katrina.
“She loves me,” said Israel, “I am growing old, I am numbering the steps of death. I need her joyous young life beside me in my declining age. Then, she is helpless, she is blind, she is my scapegoat, Basha, as I am yours, and no one save her father—”
“Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Israel had spoken warmly, and at the tender fibres of feeling that had been forced out of him at last the woman was laughing derisively. “Trust me,” she cried, “I know what daughters are. Girls like better things. No, I'll give her what will be more to her taste. She shall stay here with me.”
Israel drew himself up to his full height and answered, “Madam, I would rather see her dead at my feet.”